Infestation

- 17 -

When the Russian woman unzipped his parka, pulled it off, and hugged him hard, Banks didn’t know whether to reciprocate or push her away.

“It’s okay, Cap,” Mac said from his seated position. “She’s like that with all the lads. Except for me. She only likes me for my fags. How are we doing out there?”

“Touch and go,” Banks replied. He was starting to get feeling back in his fingers now, a burning sensation like they were being run over a flame. He still had the flare of the cutter behind his eyelids when he closed the door, as if he’d looked too long at the sun, and a pounding headache made all his speech sound as if it came booming down a long dark tunnel. “We got through the first anchor chair and let it drop a few minutes ago. Did bugger all for our position though; the second chain is the one holding us tight in place. We’ve made a start on it but I doubt we’ve got enough juice left in the cylinders to finish the job. It’s touch and go.”

“Aye? Well, it’s all chocolates and roses in here, as you can see. The sarge says the wind’s dying down?”

“Aye, there’s that at least. And the sleet’s nearly stopped. Hold on, Mac. The chopper will be here before you know it.”

“So everybody keeps telling me,” Mac replied.

The Glaswegian didn’t look well. The green veins pulsed strongly at his neck, his bandaged wrist had soaked through and dripped green goop on the deck and his face was gray, ashen, with a cold sweat pouring from his brow. But he still managed a smile when he looked up to Banks and Svetlanova.

“You can let go of him now, lass. He’s a married man and his missus gets jealous quick.”

Banks disengaged himself from the woman and checked his watch.

“Keep an eye on the corridor, Mac,” he said. “I need to check in one last time.”

Mac reached for his weapon and couldn’t quite control it, until Svetlanova bent and made sure he had the rifle gripped, one-handed, pointing down the corridor. She crouched beside the seated man and lifted Nolan’s weapon, sighting it on the same spot.

“Any time you’re ready, Cap,” she said in a perfect imitation of Mac’s accent.

“We’ll make a Scotswoman out of ye yet, lass,” Mac said. “Would you like to meet ma auld maw? She’d love you.”

Banks got the phone out of its pocket on the second try; his hands were still numb and tingling and his fingers felt too much like cold sausages but finally he got the number coded in and heard the ringing at the other end.

As he answered, he saw the Russian woman stiffen and caught a movement in the shadows along the corridor, something low, scuttling, headed their way.

“Check in,” he said.

The voice surprised him at the other end by changing protocol.

“Check in. There will be a short delay in pick up due to adverse weather conditions in your area. Keep the package ready.”

The line went dead, but he’d been on the call long enough to get the attention of one of the beasts. It came along the corridor fast, almost as wide as the distance the walls were apart, scampering and scratching, like a flattened barrel on legs.

Banks bent to reach his own weapon but his hands were still too numb and he fumbled, almost dropped the rifle. The beast kept coming but he needn’t have worried. As if synchronized, Svetlanova and Mac fired simultaneously, three rounds each, tight into the thing’s face. It dropped, flat on the floor now, some five yards from them and lay still.

“Give the lass a job, Cap,” Mac said. “She’s a natural.”

“The chopper’s definitely incoming,” Banks said once his ears stopped ringing. “It all depends on when this bloody wind dies down.”

“Should we get the sarge and McCally to stop cutting?”

“No. I still want away a bit from the rig in case any more of those big buggers come up.”

“And how about the ones down in the cargo bay?”

“I’m wondering about that myself,” Banks replied. “After we get on the chopper, we can get them to call in a strike. We could call it now but then we’d be fucked if the weather didn’t improve.”

“I’m fucked anyway, either way,” Mac said and lit another cigarette for himself and Svetlanova. He went to hand hers over, then took it back and showed her the filter; it was tinged green where it had been at his lips.

“I ken you were looking forward to it but it looks like a last kiss is out of the question, lass,” he said.

Banks went back out into the storm twice more; the second time he was with McCally when the oxy cylinder finally spluttered and gave up the ghost. They were only two-thirds of the way through the second anchor chain.

It wasn’t enough.

“Fuck it. We’ve done all we can,” he shouted to McCally. “It’s the chopper or nothing now.”

They went back inside to join the others. The sleet had stopped completely now and the wind had definitely moderated.

But has it moderated enough?

Come on, guys. Do us a solid here and get us off this fucking boat.